She messes with my mind. Let’s me dream about a time when we could’ve been together. Thinking about her and I together gives me a hope I’m not feeling right now. I’m getting married to a woman who’s pregnant, or says she is, that I’m not in love with and I didn’t even ask to marry me. If this isn’t some jacked up version of life, I don’t know what is. I can’t even lie and say I never thought of Peyton and I together, walking down the aisle with our families looking on, because I have and more so recently. I know there’s some saying about setting her free and she’ll come back. I did that already, the morning after prom. She almost left me and just when I thought I could be free and be with her, someone showed me I’m not.
Peyton is sitting on her little cart thing at midfield. She’s facing the broadcast booth, likely wondering if she’ll ever call a game. It’s her dream, and one I’d love to see fulfilled. Although there isn’t a single doubt in my mind when she calls my game, she’ll rip me apart. Thing is, I wouldn’t expect anything less.
It takes me almost a half hour to get everything set up and the machine plugged in. Normally, I’d like to have a few of the high school players hanging out to shag balls, and Nick offered to make a few calls, but once I set my mind on seeing Peyton, I knew this had to be just the two of us.
I’m a glutton for punishment, spending time like this with her, telling her about prom night and my feelings. But I had to let her know our time together meant something to me, that I wasn’t some cad who took advantage of her but truly cared about her. And care is probably the wrong word to use. I love her, but there isn’t anything I can do about it right now.
“I don’t remember Nick having this when I was in school?” Peyton says of the center machine.
“I bought it for him last year. Well, the Booster Club did after I made the donation. We use one in Portland and it’s come in handy.”
“How does it work?” She pulls herself over, using only her left leg.
“Aren’t you supposed to use your right leg as well with that?” I ask, pointing to her chair.
She shrugs and avoids my question. “So the machine.”
“So your leg,” I counter. “Tell you what, for every ball I get through the net, we walk ten yards together.”
Peyton looks at me with dubious eyes. “My therapy is going fine.”
“Prove it.” I raise my eyebrows at her, sending her a challenge she’ll never be able to back down from.
“Fine, and if I walk fifty yards, you run the snake.”
I nod. “You’re on.” We shake on our newly minted deal. “Anyway. I place the ball on the tray, tap the pad and it releases.”
“Sounds easy.”
“Eh, the pad tends to resist so I have to really push on it, but the process is effective.” As soon as I set the ball down, Peyton backs up. I look to see where she’s at and maybe to see if she’s staring at me, but her eyes are focused either on the machine or my feet. I take position behind the mechanical center and call out my cadence. Ahead of me is a net with multiple targets, each one representing a different route. I bump the pad and take my steps back, almost stumbling over my own feet.
“When did your footwork become sloppy?”
“When I left you in Chicago not knowing if I’d ever see you again.” I’m blunt and to the point.
“Well I’m alive and well so it’s time to come up with another excuse.”
“Touché.”
“Why don’t you work on some footwork drills first?” Peyton suggests. She’s right though. I hand her a whistle and get on the line, facing her. She blows into the whistle. I grapevine. She blows. I sprint. She blows. I shuffle. I use the hash marks for a makeshift ladder, twisting and turning my hips to make my feet move faster. For an hour we do this until I’m exhausted.
“Are you done blowing that whistle?” I ask, drinking down my bottle of water.
Peyton shrugs. “It was fun watching you sweat.”
I nod and wink at her. “Right, back to the machine.” This time my footwork is cleaner, but still not enough.
“You’re overthinking. It’s tap: one, two three. Look: four, five, six. Throw: seven, eight, nine.”
I count off as she advised and find a decent rhythm. Balls are starting to hit their targets and my feet aren’t crumbling beneath me. When the bucket is empty I tell her it’s time to start walking.
Peyton sighs heavily, but stands, turns around and grips her handlebar almost effortlessly. I stay behind her in the event she starts to fall, but realize after ten yards she’s doing really well.